


Don't Think For One Second

by AltBoyMicah



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Demon Sherlock, M/M, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Superwholock, actually mostly plot, not really sure where I'm going with this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltBoyMicah/pseuds/AltBoyMicah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes meant it when he warned Moriarty that he was no angel. What he didn't mention was that he meant it quite literally; Sherlock Holmes is a demon, has been for a long time. The only one who knows is his brother, who is hell bent on tearing the demon out of his brothers body to the point where he is forced to call in help. In come the Winchester brothers, amazing hunters in their own right and only made more powerful by the angel they have allied with. However, there is one thing Mycroft didn't plan on: Sherlock has allies of his own.</p><p>Currently on hiatus</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wars Often Begin Over Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Currently unbeta'd - if you would like to act as a beta for me, please send me a message!

There was no exchange of pleasantries as Sherlock took a seat across from his brother. The brothers barely even looked at each other, Mycroft busy preparing his tea with milk and sugar and Sherlock simply determined to ignore his sibling. They had been through this before, many times. It was getting almost boring. 

Mycroft had sent a car for him at noon precisely (again), Sherlock refusing to enter it until the driver and Mrs. Hudson were both thoroughly frustrated (today had set a record at 8 minutes and 27 seconds), then Sherlock was taken out to some remote summer home that he was sure Mycroft only kept for times like this (the only reason Sherlock didn't suspect the man purchased them new when he needed them was the fact that the locations sometimes repeated) and was forced to sit down for tea with the wretched man. The only thing that kept the whole process from becoming utterly dull and trivial was the coming conversation, different enough each time to keep things interesting, even if the topic was always the same. 

"I want you to leave my brothers body." The direct approach this time then. Sherlock decided to reciprocate. "No."

"I'm not asking this time, demon." 

"I wasn't aware you were asking before. And please, you know you can call me Sherlock." 

Sherlock took delight in the tightening of Mycroft's fingers around his cup. "You are not my brother." 

"But I have been for, how long has it been now? Over 15 years." Sherlock's smile spread. 

"Yes, and I believe it has gone on quite long enough." Mycroft didn't even try to hide his anger, a fact which Sherlock took personal pride in. 

"I'm afraid I don't share your sentiment. If that is all?" Sherlock rose, but before he could reach the door, Mycroft called after him, "I gave up on your consent long ago. That's why I called you here to warn you." 

"Warn me of what, exactly." Sherlock's voice dropped. He rarely took threats seriously but Mycroft wasn't one to be taken lightly, even if he was merely a human. 

"I have lost my patience with you. You've thoroughly forced my hand. I've called in hunters." 

"The best, I assume, if I know you at all." Sherlock growled, receiving no reply. His eyes narrowed, the whites bleeding black until only the steel blue shown through. "Have you forgotten my warning of what will happen if we are split?" 

"No. I have simply decided it is worth the risk." 

"Risk? It's not a matter of risk! If you try to pull me from him, your brother will die!" 

"So you say." Mycroft seemed nearly as smug as he did furious. 

"And if I am not lying, and I assure you I am not?" 

"Then at least you will die with him."

Sherlock hissed out a breath, shutting his eyes and gritting his teeth to reign in control. After a long moment, he spoke quietly. “Why are you warning me? Why not just let them catch me off guard, make it easy?”

Mycroft gave a small sigh, expression saying that he truly did feel bad about this. Sherlock was nearly impressed. The human was quite the actor. “I suppose I was hoping you would take this last chance to make things easier on everyone.”

“Yes. Well. No such damn luck.” Sherlock spat, then turned on his heel and marched out, mind whirling, planning the next step, the next battle. After all, if hunters were coming, then it was finally and truly war. The only question was how many casualties would there be before it was over.


	2. Phone Tapping and an Infuencial Client

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft makes the call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings this chapter. Not beta'd: any mistakes are my own.

It was 3am just past the Kansas border when John Winchester's phone rang. Despite the loud music he played to keep himself awake and the muffling quality of the glove box, Dean Winchester heard it loud and clear. Beside him, Sam turned the music down with one hand and rumaged for the phone with the other. “Hello?”

“Good afternoon.” The voice was British-posh and purring. “Or rather, morning. Would this be Sam or Dean I am speaking to?”

“Uh... Sam.” The younger brother cast Dean a curious look. Did this man already know of their fathers death and, if so, why was he still calling his phone? 

“A pleasure.” The voice replied. “My name is Mycroft Holmes. I have something of a job for you.”

“Okay?” Sam pulled a small notebook from the mouth of the glovebox and dug deeper for a pen. “What are the details?”

“For now, suffice it to say that I have something of a demon problem.” Mycroft replied. “The rest of the details can be explained upon your arrival.”

“Okay.” Sam mumbled, waving Dean away as he tried to lean close to overhear and mouthing at him to 'watch the road!'. “Arrive where, then?”

“London.”

“London?” Sam transferred the phone to his other ear, wondering if he had misheard. “I don't suppose mean London, Ohio, do you?”

“Not at all.” It sounded like Mycroft was smirking. “London, England of course.”

“Of course.” Sam echoed. “Isn't there anyone, I dunno, local you could get on this?”

“Perhaps, but I would really rather it be you. I worked with your father before.” Sam sat straighter at that, growing curious. “If John was the one who trained you boys, then I can be assured that you are the best. And I do need the best.” Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Mycroft continued over him. “I will, of course, provide you with airfare and accommodations. I will have an email sent to you confirming your ticket information. I do look forward to working with you boys.” 

The line went dead. 

Sam checked his email as soon as they reached a motel, finding a single email from the Topeka Airport confirming two tickets to London to leave the next day at seven in the morning, a fact which disturbed Dean for two different reasons. For one, how did the man get an email he only ever gave out to other hunters, the one he kept mainly for Bobby to send them information? And two -- 

“How the hell did he know we were in Kansas?” Dean grumbled the next morning, glancing nervously down the line of people working their way through airport security ahead of them. 

“Maybe he tapped dad's phone?” Sam suggested. 

“Right.” Dean snarked, “I don't think even Bobby could do that too easily Sammy.” 

Sam shrugged, pulling out a fake badge and matching falsified passport and handing them over along with bag of weaponry they were bringing along. Dean did the same, shifting nervously as a delay was called out over the speakers. The woman checking their bags seemed startled by the array of weapons and called something into her radio before asking the boys to step aside as two more of the security team walked over.

Dean cursed softly, expecting them to be held up, even caught. He didn't fancy dealing with being questioned right then, though he wasn't sure if that was much worse an option than getting on a flying metal death-trap for 9 hours. Instead, though, a tall man in a suit came over and drew them through, flashing a badge which Dean didn't catch but which had the men who had obviously come over to accost them backing down immediately. The man didn't speak, only handed the boys bags over to another who quickly took them to baggage loading. He then turned on his heel and motioned the Winchesters to follow, walking to them gate and leaving them there once he was sure they would be settled on the plane with no further hassle.

Sam let out a small sigh of relief as he settled into his seat. First class. This man was sparing no expense. “I think phone tapping's one of the easier things for his guy.”


	3. Lost Pages and a Night at The Montcalm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings - Notes at the end

The flight lasted just over 9 hours, an ordeal that involved a heavy dose of liquor for Dean and a combination of research and sleep for Sam. Well, as much as one can research a job that they have absolutely no information on. Sam looked through their fathers journal in hopes of finding some mention of Mycroft with what seemed to be absolutely no luck. However, upon a second read, he came across a small inscription of the letter MC in the bottom corner of a torn up page. There were a few pages that had been ripped out over the years; sometimes their father had learned they had been given faulty information, others, well, Sam wasn't sure. But he'd seen the man tear out and replace pages before and so had thought nothing of it. 

From what little scraps of the page were left along the binding, he could read only a mention of a demon, a traveller and what he figured was likely part of a name; 'Sher'. He didn't know why it had been ripped out, didn't remember the man ever having gone to London. Then again, there were plenty of times when they were young that the man had been gone for days on end with no explanation. 

The next page over in the book had a sketch of what looked like some sort of old fashion, wooden police box, notes scribbled around it talking something about a rift and some man called the Doctor, though what kind of doctor or the man's name was never mentioned. Sam wasn't sure if that and the page before were connected, but he decided it was best to read up on it just to be sure. 

Turning to Dean, he attempted to distract his brother by calling his attention to the journal. “Do you have any idea what this is?” He asked, holding up the image of the phone box. 

Dean scowled slightly, having to open his eyes to look. “A phone booth? What, you think this guy is sending us after British Superman?” He quipped sharply, though Sam took no offence to it, having known the others response would be snappy if Dean even responded at all past a shake of the head. 

Sam opened his mouth to reply but a passing flight attendant spoke up. “Oh, a police box!” She noted, leaning over Dean's chair a bit – the elder Winchester had outright refused to take the window seat – and smiling. “I haven't seen one of those in years. They got rid of them, oh, sometime in the 1970's I believe. You'll have to go to a museum if you want to see one most likely.”

“I see.” Sam smiled his thanks while Dean turned his head into the cushion of his headrest in a vain attempt to block out the plane. 

By the time they arrived at the London Heathrow Airport, Dean was suffering from a mild hangover, though Sam suspected it was mostly due to anxiety rather than the few strong drinks the flight attendants had been willing to give him. They had offered Dean sedatives a couple of times but had quickly stopped when Dean had snapped at them, embarrassed. 

Sam, on the other hand, was well rested if a bit jittery from having been stuck in such a small area for so long. Travelling as they did tended to make it hard for them to stay still with nothing to do and there wasn't much room to stretch ones legs on an aeroplane, even in first class. 

They slid through security with a surprising and rather suspicious lack of trouble and found a suited man standing at baggage claim, their bags at his feet and a professional looking sign that read 'The Winchester Brothers' in plain type. As soon as they boys were close enough to hear over the din of tired, frustrated and excited travellers, he spoke. “Mr. Holmes has instructed me to take you to your hotel.”

Dean, who was starting to recover from the plane and actually starting to look a bit excited, smirked. “Sounds good Jeeves. Lead on.” If the man was irritated by the nickname he gave no hint, only grabbed both of the boys bags – he completely ignored Sam's protests, though he didn't try and take their carry-ons from them as well – and led them out of the airport. 

A slick black car was waiting for them at the curb. The man put their bags into the boot before sliding into the drivers side. Dean went to take shogun only to find the door locked, and so slid into the back with his brother. He was somewhat glad of that when he realized there was a pane of tinted glass between the front and back seats, the only way to talk between them being a small, old fashion phone inset into the back of the driver seat. Dean blew out a whistle. “Damn, this guy really goes all out.”

Sam nodded in agreement, looking around curiously. “I wonder what he does.”

“He's gotta be part of the government.” Dean intoned quietly. “Hey, you think maybe he's some sort of spy?”

Sam tried to hide his smirk, replying playfully, “I bet. You know, he did sound almost exactly like Sean Connery.” Dean huffed and slugged him in the shoulder in response, making Sam chuckle. They spent the rest of the ride discussing James Bond films and arguing over which of the villains were the most likely to actually manage to one-up double-oh-seven. 

The hotel they pulled up next to was far from what the boys were used to. It was a large building, white siding on the bottom with a light colour brick making up the upper stories. A pillared entryway was manned by a doorman in a charcoal suit with a gold vest and tie who tipped his head as they entered, the driver following with their bags. He passed them over to a bellboy and walked up to the reception desk, which was made completely out of a brown marble and manned by two people who were likewise dressed in charcoal and gold. Behind them, gold letters hung on the wall declaring the place to be called 'The Montcalm'. 

“A night at this place probably costs more than a week at anywhere we've stayed.” Sam muttered softly, looking around in awe while Dean could only nod in agreement. 

A moment later, the driver returned to them, speaking lowly in the silence of the room. “Mr. Holmes send his regrets that he wasn't able to meet you, but urgent business has come up. He says you are to take the night to rest and get settled in and to remind you that everything is already paid for, so feel free to spend this time however you will. He will send for you tomorrow.” With that and a half-bow, the man turned and left, leaving the bellboy to show them to their rooms. Sam tipped him with a twenty once the man had let them in and handed them their keys. 

Their room was huge. It was broken into three rooms, two of them holding queen size beds with bedding of browns, greens and golds. The bedrooms both had dressers and closets, a flat-screen television and their own bathrooms. The third room was the one they entered into, a large sitting room and kitchen equipped with plush couches, another television, a counter with a mini fridge, coffee maker and toaster oven as well as cabinets stocked with snacks and drinks and a marble bar with brown leather stools. There was even a bowl of fruit on the coffee table. 

“Yeah, definitely government.” Dean agreed, watching as Sam hurried over to check out the bedrooms, smiling at his kid brothers back. It was all too rare that they got to enjoy themselves and he was happy to watch Sam scurry about, checking everything out, even though he knew part of it was from the instinct to make sure everything was safe. 

They spent the night relaxing, though Sam couldn't help but try and do some more research now that they had access to the internet and the books that had been in their luggage. Dean watched a couple of odd British shows and raided the cupboards while Sam looked into anything going on recently as well as looking up their employer, Mycroft Holmes. 

Nothing came up. Not a single article. It was almost like the man didn't exist. However, what did come up were mentions of a man named, not Mycroft, but Sherlock Holmes. The man appeared to be something of a detective, helping the local cops solve multiple crimes over the years. Some of the most recent articles told the story of the man being framed for murder and committing suicide in order to avoided capture only to have returned 3 years later to clear his name. 

Sam reached over to the coffee table and paused the film Dean was watching, ignoring the irritated reply and directing his attention to the articles. 

“Do you think this is what we were called here about?” Sam asked once the story had been explained. 

“Sounds right up our alley at least.” Dean responded, zooming in on a newspaper photo of the man. He looked attractive in a rather unconventional way, at least from what little of him Dean could see between the popped collar and the strange hat the man was wearing in what seemed to be an attempt to hide from the cameras. “I'll bet this Mycroft guy is his family and that he made a deal to bring this Sherlock dude back, and now he wants out help out of the deal.”

“Maybe.” Sam agreed distractedly, turning back to their dads journal and searching through for any mention of the Holmes family in later pages. “This is a bit weird though.” Sam pointed out the torn page, noting Mycroft's initials and the start of a name that was most assuredly Sherlock. “This part of his journal is from 15 years ago at least. Something must have happened back then to get his attention.” 

“Yeah, and something made him rip the page out, too.” There was warning in Dean's voice. “Whatever happened, I don't think Dad wanted us in on it.”

“Maybe not.” Sam challenged. “But we can't back out of this before we even know what is going on, not just because of a ripped page.” 

Dean huffed but didn't argue. Instead he stood, declaring that he wanted a shower and headed into his room, leaving Sam to continue his research alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still un-beta'd so any faults are my own. I know things are going a bit slow but they should pick up pretty soon here. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos!


	4. Creeps and Contemplation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings; notes at the end

Room service came without even being called, their breakfast apparently ordered by Mycroft or, more likely, one of his lackeys, though why he would bother, neither of the Winchesters were sure. It was equally weird that the man apparently not only knew about their location when he called them, but their eating habits as well. All their favourites were present, from fruit topped silver dollar pancakes for Sam to bacon, sausage, egg and cheese sandwiches for Dean. There was even the exact same brand of syrup Sam always got whenever they were suck somewhere long enough to bother with groceries. 

“Okay, this is getting kinda creepy.” Sam muttered, flipping the bottle around in his hands. “Do they even have this brand in England normally?”

“Who cares?” Dean huffed around a mouthful of heart attack. “Dude probably got all the info the feds have on us.” 

“I highly doubt that the FBI figured out what syrup I buy.” Sam drawled, giving his brother a look that went completely ignored. Sam changed the subject on the tail of a sigh. “I did a little more research into that Sherlock guy. Apparently he got pretty sick about 15 years ago.”

Dean focused in on that. “How sick?”

“He had less than a year left sick.” Sam confirmed, “Then all of a sudden he made this miraculous recovery. The docs put it down to some experimental treatment they were doing on him, but to add to the weirdness, that treatment has had so little success since that they no longer even bother with it.” 

“So, you think, what, maybe the kid sold his soul to get better?” 

“I really don't know.” Sam responded, frowning deeply and obviously concerned. “I still can't find anything on Mycroft at all, either. It's like he doesn't actually exist.”

“Do you think he gave us a fake name?” Dean asked curiously, half expecting Sam to tease him about his 'government spy' theory again. Instead, Sam just shrugged.

They got a call from Mycroft a few hours later, as Dean worked on cleaning his gun and Sam finished up the first proper hot shower he'd had in weeks, if not longer. It was on Dean's cell this time, making the elder Winchester wonder why the man hadn't just called his cell in the first place if he apparently already had the number. 

“Hello?” Dean shoved the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could finish reassembling his gun as he spoke. 

“Hello Dean.” Sam hadn't been kidding. This guy sounded absolutely smarmy. “I was pleased to learn you and your brother arrived safely. Have you both settled in alright?”

“Yeah, just peachy.” It was hard not to snarl at that overly-pleasant tone the man used. It was obviously fake. “So, you gonna tell us why we just flew across a goddamn ocean yesterday?”

“Patience, Dean.” Yeah, this guy was definitely enjoying this way too much. “I have a car waiting for you and your brother out front. It will take you to somewhere we can discuss the details.” 

“This got something to do with that Sherlock guy?” 

Mycroft grew quiet.

Dean smirked. Damn right, they could do research too. 

When Mycroft spoke again, his tone was polite but he had dropped the false kindness. “I will see you soon, Dean.”

 

Only a few streets across London, in the upper part of flat 221 on Baker Street, the other of the Holmes siblings found himself with a problem that he, for once, could see no simple solution to. Had it been a few years earlier, he would have had no problem with having hunters called on him. He wouldn't have killed them, not unless there was no other option – he hadn't killed a human outside of cases or honest need for decades and never once since he gained this Sherlock boy as a host – but he could have easily gone into hiding. But now, he hated to admit just how attached he was to the people in his life. Hell, he'd come out of hiding for them already once just months ago, he couldn't stand to go back in, not now, not when he had seen first-hand what it had done to those he cared about, those he had left behind. 

He honestly suspected that that had been what Mycroft had been waiting for, that his dear 'brother' had only called the hunters now because he knew Sherlock wouldn't just run. Sherlock had people he was attached to now, well, person, and because of that he wouldn't hide or flee. He had to stay and fight, and because of that someone would almost assuredly die, though whether it would be him or the hunters, he wasn't yet sure. All because he couldn't stand to watch the only person he had let close to him in almost 50 years mourn him yet again. 

And so instead of faking another death or even just disappearing – such things were far from tricky for him – he was stuck trying to work out a plan of action, preferably one that didn't involve telling anyone about his true origins, and one which was thoroughly eluding him. 

Sherlock's meeting with his brother that morning drew into shocking relief just how unstable his friendship with John still seemed. The man had said he forgave Sherlock for faking his death for three years, though it had taken some work on Sherlock's part to get the man to accept his apology. (And really, just the fact that Sherlock even bothered to bloody well apologize should have been enough, he thought, but humans were easily wounded creatures so he figured the anger was to be expected.) 

John had gone back to his old ways – following his heels through all of London, forcing tea and food on him whenever possible, praising him with words in public and kisses in private – but something had oh so obviously changed, something Sherlock wasn't quite sure he could place. It was as though everything that had happened before what they had both come to call simply The Fall had been like some sort of university romance and now they were in the real world and everything seemed to matter just a little bit more. 

Which was why Sherlock was alternating between pacing the sitting room and damn near attacking his violin to the point where Mrs. Hudson gave up on trying to check in on him and instead left to find somewhere a bit more peaceful to spend her afternoon. He'd heard her leave an hour ago and the shutting of the door behind her, quiet though it was – he didn't think he'd ever heard her slam a door once since he had met her – seemed to pull all the anxiety out of him, leaving him tired and nervous and no closer to a plan than he had been when he stormed out of Mycroft's wretched summer home that morning. 

He had less than half an hour before John was due to return from the clinic. 

For once in 15 years, he had no idea what he was going to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written ahead of this chapter and I'm taking a workshop on top of my normal work and class load so it may be a while until the next chapter. 
> 
> Still unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine. I'm looking for a beta, though, so if anyone is interested, message me!


	5. Meetings and More Questions Left Unanswered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter

The place the driver took them to was far from what they expected. Sam was readying himself for another fancy building, probably some government building or other such pillared-walkway-and-gold-lettering sort of place. Dean, on the other hand, expected a dark, damp sort of place, a warehouse or abandoned house, the sort of place they wouldn't be missed if they never came back out. Instead, they ended up sliding out of the car after an hours drive in front of a simple, two story summer home complete with wrap around porch and wooden swing on a tree. 

“I really doubt he actually lives here.” Dean muttered as the driver slid back into the car behind and put a set of earbuds into his ears, turning on an ipod and putting his feet up on the dashboard. “Probably brings people here to take them off their guard.” Sam shrugged and headed up onto the porch as the door swung open from the inside. A young woman with dark brown hair pulled the door open with one hand, the other rapidly texting on what looked like the most recent smart phone released. She didn't look up when she spoke. “Dean and Samuel?”

“Please, just Sam.” He offered his hand as they stepped inside, but instead of shaking it, she slipped the door closed and pointed into the next room. 

“Yes, thanks, nice to meet you too.” Dean grumbled, turning and following where she told them to go, finding himself in a sitting room of wood and leather furniture. A slightly heavy set man was standing by the window, the end of an umbrella clutched in both hands like a cane despite the fact that for once there were hardly any clouds in the England sky. He turned to them as they entered, giving them what passed as a smile and intoning quietly, “it's a pleasure to finally meet you. I am Mycroft Holmes, and you must be Sam and Dean.” He nodded at each of them in turn, being one of only a few people to get them right from reputation. Most expected the taller Sam to be the older of the two, something that Dean liked to pretend didn't annoy him as much as it really did. 

“Nice to meet you.” Sam offered up his hand, which Mycroft took in a fleeting and loose grip, giving Sam the distinct feeling that the man rather disliked being touched in any way at all, even something as simple as a handshake. “Would either of you like some tea?”

“Please.” Sam accepted, though Dean denied with a flippant, “nah, I'm more of a beer kinda guy myself.”

Mycroft gave a small nod that looked almost more like a bow of the head and moved over to the coffee table, pouring tea into two of the three cups set out. He waved them towards the sofa, taking the seat across from it and passed Sam one of the cups, offering milk and sugar in what sounded like an almost ceremonial routine. 

“Now then.” Mycroft said, “I suppose you are both quite curious about why I've brought you here.” 

“No shit.” Dean grumbled, dropping onto the couch and moving to put his feet up on the coffee table practically by instinct though stopping himself before the movement was really noticeable. 

“Right.” Mycroft's drawling tone told Dean he'd seen, though, and wasn't exactly taken with neither Dean's attitude nor his casual nature. “Well, you see, I have been informed that you are quite good at performing exorcisms on demons.”

Sam sat a little straighter. This man knew so much about them, he worried that he knew about his abilities, his demon blood, what he had done to become so strong. It would make sense that he did; why else would he have bothered to call them in from across an ocean? Mycroft turned a glance towards him, expression so stiff and neutral Sam wasn't sure what he was supposed to read from it, if anything at all. He had never met anyone who made him so completely uncomfortable in such a short time. 

“Yeah, we can do that.” Dean cut in, not liking the way the man looked at his brother. “This got anything to do with that Sherlock guy?”

Ha. There. Now it was Mycroft's turn to be uncomfortable. Though, really, he looked more irritated than nervous and certainly not scared. He schooled his expression back to neutral and took a sip of his tea before setting the cup and saucer down on the table and leaning forward just a bit. Sam unconsciously mimicked him, setting his tea aside as well and focusing in. 

“I see you've done your homework.” It didn't sound like a compliment, though Mycroft likely intended it to come out that way. “Yes. Sherlock is my younger brother. I'm sure you've read all about him; his illness as a child, his cases, that embarrassment of a fake suicide. All of that is neither here nor there.” He sat back again, seeming to relax as though he'd fully addressed everything on that subject, as though the brothers were no longer going to ask about it. And indeed, at the man's callous dismissal of the issue, it did seem quite like all that was in the past. 

“Alright then.” Dean wasn't one for beating around the bush. “Then why are we here?”

“Because he seems to have made himself into a rather comfortable home for a rather powerful demon.” Mycroft's face grew dark. “I had hoped that giving the beast time to reason would get him to leave Sherlock's body, but this doesn't seem to be the case.”

“What were you expecting!?” Dean ignored his brother's shushing gesture. “Demon's don't just suddenly grow a conscience and let their hosts go free!”

“This is not your typical demon.” Mycroft snapped, shutting Dean up for the moment. “He is intelligent and has managed to live within society without drawing attention to himself. Well, not too much at least. He shares his home with a human who, as far as I know, is completely unaware with what sleeps in the other room. Or the same room, I suspect.” Dean scrunched his face up in disgust, though it was mostly show and only due to the idea of demon-and-human, not man-and-man. The latter idea he had come to terms with quite recently himself. 

“How long has the demon been in your brother? Since the fake suicide?” Sam asked curiously, trying to remember all the articles he'd read since and attempting to pick out any distinctly demon behaviour in them. Other than an obvious lack of tact, the Sherlock in the articles seemed fairly normal. 

“Longer.” Mycroft's clipped tone was meant to end the questions, but Dean was having none of it. 

“Alright, look dude. If you want our help, you're going to have to stop hiding shit from us.”

Mycroft rounded on him. “I was unaware that the victims life story was required in order for you to attempt to save them.” Dean baulked slightly, opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft spoke over him. “This is all the information I can give you. Now,” he stood, folding his hands behind his back. “I shall have Sherlock's address and the places he can most often be found sent to your email. I will also provide running text updates with his location whenever we are able to pick it up. Do keep me informed, won't you?” 

Sam stood quickly, offering his hand once more mostly to annoy the man in what little ways he could manage. They were showed out, slid back into the car and dropped back at their hotel in silence, both stewing over what was going on and what Mycroft had to be hiding. 

Before they were even in their room once more, both of their cells buzzed in unison. The text simply read 'Scotland Yard, 51.4986° N, 0.1331° W'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still unbeta'd. Sorry about any mistakes. 
> 
> Sorry this is so short, but it's been such a long while I wanted to get something up. What with the holidays, finals and my cat having surgery (he's just fine, mind you, but he's not happy with his cone) I've been really busy lately. Hopefully chapters will start coming more often once again now.


	6. Coordinates and Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brothers plan for a fight and find themselves a bit less prepared for working in England than they were expected. Meanwhile, Sherlock is, for the first time ever, unhappy about having a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings other than a tidbit of language in this chapter. 
> 
> Still un-beta'd. Mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Sorry for the wait on this one! Life has gotten hectic and it doesn't look like it will settle any time soon. I'll try and post again soon enough!

Pressing on the numbers in the text opened up the GPS on their phones, showing them the quickest rout to get to the man. 

“This dude is seriously creepy.” Dean grumbled as they slipped into their room. Sam leaned down and dragged their bags of weaponry from one of the cabinets, which he'd emptied out earlier for just that purpose. What had been in there – a couple of spare towels and sheets – was placed over the arm of the sofa. Sam set aside the weapons that would be more likely to kill both host and demon, hoping they could trap and exercise the man instead of killing him along with his parasite. 

“He's definitely hiding something,” Sam grumbled, shoving spare clips of ammunition into his bag, just in case they had no other choice. “And it's more than just the fact that this guy's his brother.” 

“There's one thing that's been bothering me.” Dean swung his bag onto his shoulder and headed towards the door, continuing over his shoulder. “Why has this demon been pretending to be human? I mean, why didn't he just go on the typical demon-rampaging-bloodbath?”

“You think there's some deeper plan?” Sam asked quietly, frowning at the idea. It certainly was an unpleasant one. “The the demon is just, I don't know, lying in wait. Like some kind of sleeper cell?”

“More like a plain old ticking bomb, if you ask me.” Dean huffed in reply, sliding a gun into the waistband of his pants and pulling the flannel down to cover it. 

 

By the time they arrived at the coordinates they had been given, Sherlock was gone. When Sam asked at the front counter, he was simply informed that the man was “on a case” and that they couldn't be told anything more until the case was closed, including where to find him. 

“Listen, Ma'am.” Dean leaned on the counter with one arm, pulling out and flashing a badge with the other. “We're US marshals--”

She cut him off before he could say any more. “Then you know full well that you have absolutely no jurisdiction here, and as a result you will be getting no special treatment, and no more information.” She smiled widely. “Now, if there's nothing else I can do for you, welcome to England and enjoy your stay.”

 

“Well damn.” Dean cussed, pushing the door closed behind him. It was on a spring that slowed it down and refused to slam, something that only annoyed him further. 

“You think we should see if Mycroft can get us some badges?” Sam asked, staring down at his own a moment before snapping it closed and shoving it into his back pocket. 

“No point.” Dean quipped. “Apparently this guy's pretty tight with the cops, so I doubt he wouldn't realize we aren't actually on the force.” In all honesty, though, Dean mostly really didn't want to ask Mycroft for any favours. The last thing he wanted was to have more contact with the man than was strictly necessary. 

“You probably have a point.” Sam sighed, holding a hand out and sighing gratefully when a cab rolled up. They seemed to be much more reliable here than they were in New York City, or anywhere else in the US for that fact. Sliding in after his brother, he opened his mouth to ask the cabbie to take them back to their hotel, intending to see if that email with the man's favourite locations was in yet, when their phone chimed again. Looking down, he noticed that the text read '51.5410° N, 0.1433° W Camden Town Warehouse District' this time. Dean's phone chimed half a second later, his message the same. Sam sighed. Email would have to wait. 

 

Meanwhile, Sherlock was all over distracted. He was distracted from his current predicament by a new case, but he was reversely distracted from the case with thoughts of his predicament. He found himself staring at John's back, watching the man lean over the newest body, a young woman dead from a knife wound to the throat. Her neck had been cut in one clean slash, and they the pool of blood around her was far too small for such a wound. And John, John went right to work as soon as Sherlock had stepped back, confirming most of Sherlock's deductions, missing a few and adding one of his own, something that in his distraction, Sherlock hadn't seen. A ridge in the skin below the still-dripping wound, as though the edge of something had been pushed quite hard against the skin there. 

John was amazing. When Sherlock returned, the first thing he had realized was that John loved him. Why else would he have so readily taken Sherlock back? Even if he did punch him first. It hadn't been Sherlock's most elegant moment. The moment the doctor's fist had collided with Sherlock's cheek, opening a cut long his cheekbone, Sherlock had started to laugh. Even as he wrestled John's arms behind his back, holding him until he stopped squirming, which didn't take long. John had thought him crazy, and even more so when Sherlock had got his laughter under control and decided the best next move was to sweep forward, take John's face in both hands, and kiss him. When John had (much) later asked why Sherlock had started laughing, the demon had grinned and reminded him of Irene's note of, “Somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face I'd avoid your nose and teeth too.” John had avoided any real damage, even with what Sherlock had done, because no matter how much Sherlock could piss him off, he still cared greatly for the man. 

John had smiled, amused. “It would make sense that our first love confession would come through hand to hand combat.”

“That was hardly combat.” Sherlock smirked back. 

“Oh? You asking for another round?” John had quipped. 

“Sherlock?” John's voice snapped him out of his musings, making the demon blink slowly at him, twice, before shaking himself and stepping forward. Right, yes. Back to work. He had to finish this case quickly so he could move on to more pressing matters. For once, Sherlock was actually disappointed that this didn't look like it would be an easy puzzle to solve.


End file.
